


love like fools

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Jealous Brian, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pre-Queen (Band), Slow Burn, University, i don't know what counts as slow burn, i think???, jealous freddie, roger is a great wingman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 15:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: “He was wearing his sex shirt,” he says numbly.“...Hiswhat?”“You know!” Freddie says.  He waves his hand out toward the door Brian’s just disappeared through.  “His fucking sex shirt!  He always wears that shirt when it’s the night.  He’s going to have sex with her, Roger!”Roger snorts.  “Brian does not have a sex shirt,” he says.Freddie is jealous.  Brian, it turns out, is also jealous.





	love like fools

“See you tomorrow!”

Freddie stares forlornly at the front door as it slams behind Brian, two packets of noodles clutched uselessly in his hands. His chest feels more than a little bit like something’s just caved it in. 

“Did you know he had a date tonight?” he asks quietly, finally turning away from the door and looking at Roger.

“Yeah, I think he mentioned it,” Roger tells him. He’s perched on the kitchen counter and kicking his legs back and forth, oblivious to Freddie’s heartbreak. “That Nancy girl, I think he met her in class or something.”

Freddie swallows. _Nancy_. Brian’s seen her a few times now but he hadn’t really mentioned her this week, Freddie’d thought... 

But apparently not. 

“He was wearing his sex shirt,” he says numbly.

“...His _what_?”

“You know!” Freddie says, dumping the noodles on the table. He waves his hand out toward the door Brian’s just disappeared through. “His fucking _sex shirt_! He always wears that shirt when it’s _the night_. He’s going to have sex with her, Roger!”

Roger snorts. “Brian does not have a sex shirt,” he says. 

“He _does_,” Freddie insists. Freddie knows. Freddie keeps what is probably an unhealthy track of Brian’s dating life and that is absolutely the shirt he wears when he thinks things have progressed suitably and that his chances of getting lucky are high. He never comes home when he wears that shirt. Never. 

Freddie _hates_ that shirt.

“Did he ask to borrow a condom earlier?” Freddie asks, keeping his tone as level as he can.

Roger’s eyes go narrow. “How the fuck did you—”

“He did, didn’t he?” Freddie feels sick. He wants to cry. He wants to follow Brian and make up an emergency so he’ll come home and stay with Freddie, listen to records in their room or just sit writing an essay in bed while Freddie falls asleep asking him questions about space and cosmic dust so he can listen to his voice. Anything, anything to keep him with him. Anything so he wouldn’t be out there with someone else. 

“Yeah,” Roger admits. “He said he’d run out.”

Which he had, two weeks ago, and he hasn't bought any more yet. It’s funny but he never asks Freddie for one, though he’s stolen them from Roger multiple times. Freddie literally shares a bedroom with him, he’s right there, but Brian never asks.

Freddie has to swallow around the lump in his throat and resists the urge to shove the noodles off the table and onto the floor. “Bit of a tarty name, Nancy, isn’t it?” he says. 

Roger makes a face. “Seems normal enough to me. I met her the other day, she seemed nice.”

Freddie wants to hit him. “Well if she fucks him tonight she’s far too slutty for him, they only met three fucking weeks ago.”

Roger snorts. “Oh, come off it, Fred, you’ve slept with people within an _hour_ of meeting them.”

“That’s different.”

“_How_?”

Freddie doesn’t know. “It just _is_,” he says angrily, and storms out of the kitchen. He’s not really hungry all of a sudden and the noodles are the flavour Brian likes, anyway. Freddie prefers the spicy ones.

Their room smells like Brian’s best cologne and Freddie furiously shoves the windows open even though it’s freezing outside. Even though he loves the smell. He locks the door so that Brian wouldn’t be able to bring his fucking _girlfriend_ in even if he tried and throws himself down on his bed, feeling awful and bitter and miserable and wishing he could just be like Roger.

Roger’s happy for Brian. Happy that he’s met a _nice_ girl. Happy for him that he’s getting laid. Gave him the fucking condom. Freddie wishes he could tear this part of himself out and just be a fucking _friend_ but he can’t. He’s tried and he _can’t_, he can’t make this go away. He doesn’t know how. He feels bitterly sick at the thought of Brian out with this girl, he _hates_ her with burning envy, and hates himself that he could be so vicious. 

He lies in bed for hours, waiting for the front door to open, but Brian doesn’t return home.

It takes a long, long time for Freddie to fall asleep.

* * *

He’s awoken to the sound of Brian hammering on the bedroom door and calling his name.

Freddie blearily opens his eyes and sits up, shivering, trying to orient himself.

“Freddie!”

“Two secs,” he says, rolling out of bed and stumbling over to unlock the door.

Brian looks unfairly good for whatever time of the morning it is, grinning down at Freddie like he hasn’t just been locked outside for however long. 

For a moment Freddie’s just elated to see him, but then he registers the _shirt_, the fucking _sex shirt_ and Brian’s happy _glow_ and last night comes crashing back. 

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his back and goes back to bed, crawling under the covers and wrapping them tightly around himself. Roger can open the stall on his own this morning, Freddie’s in no mood to deal with other people.

Brian catches his breath as he steps inside. “Christ, Fred, aren’t you cold?” he laughs, rubbing his arms as he walks over to the windows to shut them.

“No,” Freddie lies petulantly. 

“Liar,” Brian says, unphased. “You’re always cold.” 

Freddie doesn’t say anything, just burrows more deeply into his blankets and pretends to try and go back to sleep while Brian potters around the room.

“Did you have a nice evening?” Brian asks after a while, his bed creaking as he throws himself down onto it.

Freddie ignores him. 

“Freddie? Are you asleep?” Brian stage-whispers.

“Yes,” Freddie grouses. 

Brian laughs. “I went out with Nancy. You know that little Indian place you found the other week? I took her there—bloody hell it’s expensive!”

Freddie doesn’t reply. Brian’s right though, that place _is_ expensive. He really must have been trying to impress his girlfriend to have shelled out that much on a date. That, or he’d been certain enough of the evening’s end that he’d not minded taking her somewhere extra nice.

Freddie hopes she gets food poisoning and then instantly hates himself for thinking that.

He still doesn’t say anything to Brian. 

Brian’s quiet for a moment and Freddie thinks he’s gotten the hint but then he feels his bed dip as Brian sits on the edge of it.

“Fred?” he says gently. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Freddie mumbles, keeping his head buried in his blankets. He thinks he might cry if he looks at Brian.

“You sure? Are you feeling a bit poorly?” Brian asks, leaning over. He puts his hand out to steady himself, plants it right on Freddie’s thigh, and Freddie can feel the heat of him even through his quilt. “Freddie?”

“I’m fine, Bri,” Freddie mutters, peering out of his nest just enough to see him. God, he’s so beautiful. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?”

And perfect. Freddie can never stay mad at him for long. He nods pitifully and Brian pats his leg before getting up and disappearing out of the room, whistling to himself. 

Freddie rolls onto his back and wishes with his entire heart that things were different.

* * *

Nancy doesn’t last long. Freddie tries not to feel too smug about it.

It’s a Thursday but they take Brian out for consolatory drinks at their local, though Freddie and Roger haven’t sold much on the stall this week so he ends up buying most of his drinks himself, then ends up buying Freddie’s as well as Freddie just steals sips from his otherwise and by the time Brian goes to pick up his glass it’s half empty.

Still, he’s considerably more cheerful after a few pints of Guinness and several rounds of absolutely thrashing Freddie at pool. 

Roger and John have given up asking for a turn on the table and have instead each picked a side to cheer for (Roger’s cheering for Brian and, after watching Freddie’s performance, John’s considering cheering for Brian as well) after putting all of John’s change into the jukebox and picking the music for the next hour. 

“You should’ve put some money down, Brian,” Roger jokes. “You’d’ve made a fortune off Fred.”

“Oh, you know I don’t have any money, darling,” Freddie waves him off, chalking up the end of his cue as though that will help him pot the six balls he has left before Brian sinks the black. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brian says lowly, smirking at him. Freddie is suddenly very aware of how close he’s stood, how very _tall_ Brian is, how fast his heart is beating. “I’m sure you could think of _some_ way to pay me.”

Freddie’s heart stops and his brain loses all ability to function. “I—what?” he stammers. Horrifically, he can feel himself blushing. Is Brian _flirting_ with him?

Brian actually looks just as surprised as Freddie feels and quickly steps away, laughing. 

“You could do the dishes for a week,” he says, recovering. “Or hoover.”

Roger frowns at Brian while John just snorts.

“Does Freddie even know what a hoover is?” he teases.

“Course he does,” Roger says loudly. “Sucks things, doesn’t it, Fred?” But he’s still watching Brian, frowning shrewdly when Brian’s face turns pink at his words.

“He’ll know all about it, then,” Deaky adds with a grin and Freddie throws the cube of chalk at him.

“Oh, shut up, all of you!” He feels hot all over, flushed and embarrassed and hyper-aware of how Brian’s just put a pool table’s worth of distance between them.

He misses his next shot spectacularly and they all watch as the white ball drops out of sight into one of the pockets while Freddie curses the damn thing, but Brian doesn’t even make fun of him. He’s quiet for the rest of the game, barely brags at all when he wins, and hands the cue off to Roger saying he’s going to get another drink.

“Do you want a hand carrying anything?” John offers but Brian shakes his head and ducks through the crowd to get to the bar.

Freddie tries and fails not to dwell on it but he can feel Brian’s absence like a missing tooth while he sits and watches Roger and John play sudden death. 

They play through two games and Brian still hasn’t returned.

Freddie debates with himself while they’re racking up to play a third game and slips away while they’re arguing about whose turn it is to go first. Maybe the queue at the bar is ridiculously long or Brian’s accidentally knocked someone’s drink out of their hand and spent the last twenty minutes apologising. 

He’s not at the bar, though, or in the bathroom, or even out in the tiny garden. Freddie searches all over, starting to get nervous, when he suddenly spots him in a booth in the corner. With a girl. 

Their heads are bent together, kissing heavily, and Brian’s hand is on her thigh, just under the hem of her skirt.

Freddie goes cold all over, his heart squeezing painfully, before he turns on his heel and makes his way through the crowd, blinded by his own sudden tears.

Not flirting, then. Not with Freddie, anyway.

It’s bitterly cold outside but Freddie carries on walking, pulling his jacket tightly around himself as he makes the familiar tracks home, head bent down. He should probably have told Roger and John he was leaving but he couldn’t have spent another second in there, he just had to get away.

He’s already shivering by the time he gets to the end of the road, teeth chattering together painfully by the time he reaches their flat and realises with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t bring any keys out with him.

Well, he’s not turning around and walking back. He sits down on the doorstep and hugs his knees to his chest to try and keep warm, hoping Roger and John will notice he’s gone sooner rather than later and come home.

He doesn’t know why he lets himself even _think_ about Brian when it only ever leads to this: Brian off somewhere with his latest girlfriend and Freddie alone and in tears, wishing his heart weren’t quite so prone to breaking. But it’s _Brian_. There’s just something about him that Freddie can’t shake, that no amount of heartbreak or other boys will scrub out of him. 

Maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment. Or maybe he’s stupidly, foolishly, in love.

He certainly feels a fool, sat on the doorstep with his ass going more numb by the second, miserably wiping fresh tears off his face every few minutes. Every time he closes his eyes he can see Brian with her all over again, his long fingers just disappearing under her skirt, the way his shoulders press against the white cotton of his shirt, the same shirt Freddie sewed a new button on for him earlier this evening. 

It’s not fair that she can have him but Freddie can’t just because she had the good fucking luck of coming in the right shape for him and Freddie _didn’t_. And it’s not fair that he can’t fall for anyone else because every time he goes out with a guy, in the back of his mind he only ends up cataloguing the ways they’re not Brian. He can’t _help _it. Wrong voice, wrong hands, wrong laugh. Brian would have held that door, or Brian wouldn’t have let him walk alone, or Brian would be more gentle than that.

Even with someone else’s tongue or cock inside him, it’s all he can think about. Freddie’s quite sure it’s ruining his life, but he can’t have it any other way. He can’t have what he wants but to have _nothing_, to not even be able to suffer this, would be worse. To not _know_ where he was or who he was with, if it was good (Brian comes home happy and _chatty_, loose and relaxed) or bad (Brian comes home at midnight in a black mood and won’t talk to anyone but he’ll let Freddie cram in his bed with him and listen to records in silence, sometimes until the sun rises and Freddie falls asleep in his bed).

To not have him at all would be worse. 

Freddie thinks so, anyway. 

But when he finally hears voices in the street, heading toward the flat, it’s not Roger or John. It’s Brian. And he’s got the girl from the pub with him.

Freddie can barely believe his eyes when he sees them, Brian loping his way down the pavement, her clinging to him and giggling idiotically. God, Freddie hates them, he hates every one of the air-headed girls Brian always fucking chooses and then moans that he can’t have a _conversation_ with them, that they haven’t even heard of half of his favourite bands or don’t take him seriously when he says they play music.

“Freddie?” Brian’s startled to see him, nearly tripping over the uneven paving slabs. The girl only just manages to keep her balance, looking at Freddie with wide eyes and a stupid inspid smile. “What the fuck are you doing out here, you’ll freeze to death!”

Freddie stiffly gets to his feet and shrugs. “Don’t have my keys. Now are you going to stand there all night or are you going to open the door, darling?” he says pointedly, stepping aside.

Brian fumbles to get his keys out but he’s still just staring at Freddie, looking uncomfortable.

Freddie doesn’t speak to him when the door finally opens, just strides past both of them to get inside the house first—he really is freezing and the flat isn’t _warm_ but it’s better than the outside—and ignores Brian when he hovers uncertainly.

“Uh,” Brian says eventually and Freddie pretends to be very busy untying his shoelaces so he won’t have to look at him. “I didn’t realise you were home. I was gonna…” Freddie can’t see him but he can imagine the gesture he makes toward their bedroom. 

Freddie huffs. “So I suppose I’ll have to sleep out here, then?” he says. He makes his voice too harsh, he doesn’t mean to but it’s the only way he can keep it from sounding just _sad_, and Brian blinks at him in surprise.

“It’s okay, we can—”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Freddie snaps. “Carry on. Just keep it down, for fuck sake, I have class tomorrow.” He has to turn away quickly, fighting the instinct to press a hand to his chest because it’s _hurting_, and stays still until Brian and the girl have disappeared down the hall, bedroom door slamming behind them.

Brian does do him the courtesy of putting a record on quite loudly, but it’s Jimi and it only makes Freddie feel worse. What he wouldn’t give to be in there. He wouldn’t even need sex, not if Brian didn’t want that. But just to be with him, listening to _May This Be Love_, buried under both of their quilts because neither of them are very warm. Brian’s hair would get in the way when they cuddled but Freddie wouldn’t care, and he’d bitch when Freddie pressed his freezing cold feet on him but he wouldn’t pull away. Freddie’s so sure, somehow.

He doesn’t even try to sleep on the sofa; the thing’s probably a health hazard, if he’s honest with himself, and not all that comfortable with the amount of people who’ve crashed on it over the years. Instead he steals into Roger’s and John’s room, which is surprisingly tidy, and crawls into Roger’s bed.

He doesn’t have to wait long before the front door opens and two pairs of footsteps come rushing down the hall. Freddie sits up, relieved that he won’t be alone any more, but they both walk right past their room and go straight for his.

Freddie winces preemptively as the bedroom door is opened, hears the twin shouts of horror from Roger and John and a stern, ‘Fuck off!’ from Brian before the door slams shut.

Well, at least their night wasn’t perfect. Freddie tries to take some small iota of comfort from that but it doesn’t help much because as soon as Roger and John step into their room and exclaim with relief at seeing him, he bursts into tears.

“Oh fuck, Freddie!” Roger says, quickly coming over and diving on him, wrapping him in a hug. “What’s the matter?” he asks gently, sitting them up.

John comes and sits on Freddie’s other side, one arm around his back, the two of them sandwiching him between them and Freddie sniffs, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, and he doesn’t see it but he can _feel_ the two of them exchange a look over his head. “What?”

“It’s just...well,” John begins, clearing his throat. “Well, we were thinking, actually. And we were going to ask you, because you seemed...you know. And when you disappeared earlier, we were so worried, ‘cause we thought you’d be with Brian but then he was…”

Freddie closes his eyes and ducks his head and Roger gives John a quick thump behind his back. 

“You’re saying it all wrong, Deaks,” Roger says, and gives Freddie a gentle squeeze. “What he means is, we were both talking and we wanted to ask if you...well, if you had a...a _thing_ for Brian or something.”

Freddie sighs, feeling utterly pathetic, and wipes his face again. “I’ve tried not to,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I think it goes away but it just won’t. And I know nothing will ever happen and it’s just stupid, but it is what it is. And I’m _fine_ with it, really I am, I just…”

“Don’t want it shoved in your face,” Roger fills in for him, sympathetic. “Oh, Fred. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“You really do,” Deaky says, his arm going tighter around Freddie’s back. “I mean, _Brian_? Seriously?”

“Deaky!” Roger says loudly.

“What! I’m just _saying_, I’m not even gay but that guy you were with last month, what was his name? Derek or something? He was quite good looking, really,” John says defensively. “And he wore normal shoes.”

Freddie can’t help but snort at that, laughing miserably. “His dumb clogs,” he says fondly. “I even love his stupid dumb fucking _clogs_.”

Roger sighs with him and ruffles his hair. “You’ll be alright, Fred,” he says bracingly. “Do you want to stay in here tonight?”

Freddie nods and they all disentangle so they can get ready for bed, though Roger has to lend Freddie some clothes to sleep in because none of them want to go into the other bedroom and Roger loves Freddie very, very dearly but no fucking way is he allowing him to sleep naked in his bed.

He does give him another hug, though, and even consents to having his record player on while they drift off. 

Deaky is incensed at this, sitting up in bed from across the room. “You never let me play music to go to sleep!” he points out indignantly.

“Well, you’re not heartbroken,” Roger replies with an unapologetic grin. “Next time you get dumped, you can play a record when you go to sleep if you want.”

Deaky rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he flops back down. “Asshole,” he mutters good-naturedly. “Ronnie isn’t going to dump me, anyway. It’s nearly our sixth-month anniversary.”

“No way!” Freddie gasps from where he’s trying to surreptitiously steal the blankets from Roger. “That long?”

“Yep!” John says proudly. “We’re going away for the weekend.”

Freddie goes to sit up, interested, and Roger yanks him back down with his eyes closed. “No,” he says firmly. “Talk about this tomorrow, I have class in the morning. Go to sleep.”

“Roger is the love-Scrooge,” John stage-whispers and Freddie snorts.

“He’s just jealous because—”

He doesn’t finish because Roger yanks Freddie’s pillow out from under his head and thwacks him with it, which sets Freddie giggling and soon sets Roger off, too.

It’s not a perfect evening, not even close, not when Brian’s just a few doors away with someone who isn’t Freddie and never will be, but it’s enough just to not fall asleep crying.

* * *

Roger’s already gone by the time Freddie wakes up the next morning, because when Freddie said he had a morning class he meant ten but when Roger said it, he meant his started at half-eight.

John’s not in bed either when Freddie sits up and Freddie assumes he had a class, too, and rolls out of bed to make himself some tea before he tries to face the day. It’s not looking to be a good one; he has a life drawing class today, plus a project he _really_ needs to work on, and he’s supposed to be relieving Roger on the market stall at two.

And, because that’s apparently just the sort of day this is going to be, Brian walks into the kitchen just as Freddie plugs the kettle in.

“Morning,” Brian greets, his voice rough with sleep.

Freddie manages to withhold a greeting from him for about five seconds before he caves. 

“Morning,” he says, eyes flickering shyly over to where Brian’s standing, petrified he might see the girl from last night hovering at his elbow, but he’s mercifully alone.

Alone, but staring at Freddie with a deep frown on his face.

“What?” Freddie demands, self-consciously looking down at himself. 

“Is that Roger’s t-shirt?” Brian asks. “_And_ his trousers?”

Freddie shrugs. “Yes? I borrowed them.”

Brian’s still staring at him. “You borrowed them?” he questions flatly.

“Did she deafen you or something?” Freddie snaps without really meaning to; the words hurt _him_ more than anyone else. “_Yes_ I borrowed them.”

Brian, for all his formidable brain power, can’t seem to comprehend this. “Why would you borrow Roger’s clothes?” he asks slowly.

“Well I couldn’t exactly sleep with him naked, could I?” Freddie says, rolling his eyes. 

The kettle clicks behind him and he turns away to pour water in his cup, leaving Brian stood there gaping at him. 

“What, you...you slept with him?”

Freddie nearly spills the water. “We didn’t have _sex_, Christ!”

“No!” Brian says immediately. “I mean you...you slept in his bed?”

“Obviously.”

“And Roger was there too?”

“Well he didn’t sleep on the roof, Bri,” Freddie retorts sarcastically.

“Why would you sleep in his bed with him?” Brian asks, like the thought is so absurd it shouldn’t have even occurred to Freddie to do it.

“Well, if you’ll recall, Brian, you were shagging some tart in our room, so—”

“Don’t call her that!”

Freddie scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ll give you twenty quid if you can even tell me her name.”

Brian’s silent for a beat too long and Freddie feels hollow but he still gives a triumphant little huff. 

“Like you’re any better,” Brian shoots back at him and Freddie purses his lips, furiously stirring the tea bag around his cup.

“Call me a tart if you like, Bri, but I’ve never shagged someone whose name I don’t know,” he says stiffly. “How else would I know what to scream?” he adds, just to be a bitch.

Brian’s face is getting slowly redder. “You—I was only _asking_, Freddie, fuck. I’m not calling you a tart.”

“Well it sounds like you are,” Freddie says.

“I’m not.” Brian’s voice has dropped back to a normal tone and he gets the milk out of the fridge for him.

There are a few beats of uncomfortable silence as Brian sets the milk down by Freddie’s elbow and leans back against the counter next to him. “You could have come back to our room, you know,” he says eventually. 

“Well, my bed was cold and Roger is very warm,” Freddie says with a shrug that looks far more careless than he feels.

Brian’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions. “He what?”

“He’s very warm,” Freddie repeats slowly, like Brian’s a toddler without much grasp of the English language.

“You were...like, what? Cuddling?”

They didn’t, really, but that’s not the point. Freddie arches his eyebrows. “Are you going to have a gay panic on Roger’s behalf?” he asks, rolling his eyes. “Get over yourself.”

“No!” Brian says quickly. “That’s not...I don’t...you _know_ I don’t, Freddie. _We’ve_ slept in the same bed before,” he points out suddenly. 

“Well then,” Freddie says.

“Well then,” Brian repeats, fiddling with the foil top from the milk. “We should...we should hang out soon. Just us. Feels like it’s been ages, doesn’t it?”

It does, but to Freddie spending a mere afternoon away from Brian feels like ages.

“We should,” Freddie agrees at once, because no matter what he’d never turn Brian down, not in a million years. “Just...let me know when you’re free.”

“I will.” Brian straightens up looking a bit more cheerful and hands the foil back to Freddie. “I better get going, I’ve got class. We’ll do something,” Brian says as he walks out, nodding earnestly at Freddie. “Soon.”

Freddie nods back but Brian’s already walking away. Freddie wonders how long it will be before Brian has a girl-free night and happens to remember him, then grasps at his tea and busies himself pottering around so he won’t upset himself thinking about it.

* * *

Class goes horribly. Freddie’s supposed to be doing life drawing but he can’t get the model’s face right at all—he can’t seem to shade the hair properly and the nose is far too long. It takes half the class for him to realise it’s because he’s drawing Brian every time he loses focus. 

His tutor doesn’t comment, just presses her lips together when she looks over his shoulder and gives him a _look _Freddie can interpret perfectly well without words, thank you very much.

He does the unthinkable and tosses the drawing away as soon as class is done, tucking his portfolio folder under his arm as he runs for the bus so he can meet Roger at Kensington.

Roger’s serving a customer when Freddie finally arrives, harried and late, but gestures at Freddie that he wants to talk to him before he leaves.

There are boxes that Freddie should probably unpack but he ignores them for the moment in favour of having a little sit down.

It doesn’t take long for Roger to join him, grinning as he puts some notes into their little cash box. “Finally shifted those red cowboy boots,” he says proudly. “Got a tenner for ‘em.”

He drags a milk crate over and sits down opposite Freddie, his grin fading to a frown. “So...how’re you feeling?” he asks carefully.

Freddie shrugs. “Fine. Class was shit.”

Roger makes a face. “No, I mean...about Brian.”

“What about him?”

“_You know._”

“Roger,” Freddie says with a little sigh, “I’ve felt like this for _months_, darling. Nothing’s changed. I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you? He was acting weird with me earlier,” Roger says, screwing up his mouth. 

“Weird how?”

“Like, pissy. Got really shirty with me when I asked if I could borrow his umbrella even though he’s not even _doing_ anything tonight and said we needed to start putting the heating on in the house. As though _I’m_ the one who insists on keeping it off!” Roger says, incensed. 

Freddie frowns. “Maybe he’s annoyed that you walked in on him last night?” he suggests.

Roger claps both hands over his face. “God, don’t remind me, I think I’m scarred for life. I didn’t _ever_ need to see his bare ass, I probably need therapy.”

“Please don’t,” Freddie requests quietly, closing his eyes. He can feel his face heating and hopes Roger won’t notice in the strange half-light of the stall. “Little tart. They’d only just met!”

“She was leaving when I got up this morning, didn’t stay long,” Roger tells him. 

“Yeah she wasn’t about when I got up.”

“Did you see Brian?”

“Briefly,” Freddie shrugs. “He said we should hang out.”

“What? We always hang out.”

“No, like. Just him and me,” Freddie clarifies.

“You guys always do that, too,” Roger says, which is true. Well, they used to. 

“Not for a while. I doubt he’ll get much free time, anyway, what with all these girlfriends,” Freddie says, waving his hand.

Roger purses his lips. “Let’s go out tonight,” he says suddenly. “Get drunk. Properly drunk. Get your mind off Brian bloody May, get you _laid_, geez, how long has it even been?”

Freddie grimaces. 

“Too long,” Roger surmises (correctly), standing up. “You’re coming out with me. I’ll meet you at home later, yeah? We’ll get the tube.”

Freddie doesn’t protest, partly because it’s useless trying to talk Roger out of a wild night out and partly because it _does_ sound appealing.

The afternoon passes quite quickly with something to look forward to and he manages to make several decent sales despite the rain that starts to patter down on the canvas roof. He even manages to flog a frankly _ruined_ jacket that even Roger had tried to tell him to chuck away, insisting to the woman that it’s a one of a kind antique and that she’s the first person to try it on that it’s actually fit—and so perfectly, too! 

He doesn’t feel too bad—it _had_ fit her, at least—because if he doesn’t get some cash this afternoon he’s not going to be able to drink anything at all later and that’s no fun.

The rain is really coming down by the time the market starts to close up and Freddie swears under his breath as he hastily packs the display items back into their worn boxes and drags tarpaulin over them, tying ropes off and taping away without needing to think about it. He grabs the cash box to take home with him and turns to leave but nearly jumps out of his skin when he realises someone’s standing right _there_.

“Brian! Fucking _hell_, you almost gave me a heart attack, darling!” Freddie gasps, clutching the tin to his chest.

Brian’s grinning at him from underneath a giant umbrella, wrapped up in a coat that looks delightfully warm and makes Freddie aware suddenly just how cold it’s gotten as the evening’s drawn in.

“Didn’t want you to get wet walking to the bus,” Brian calls over the sound of the rain.

Freddie blinks at him. “Did you come all the way out here just for that?” he asks, taken aback.

“Well,” Brian says, shrugging. “I was up at the uni anyway, I needed to talk to one of the lecturers. They’ve said we can use the hall to practice on Sunday afternoons as long as we put it all back after.”

“What? You’re kidding!” Freddie says. “Bri, that’s amazing! Well _done_, darling! We’ll have to get in there right away and get practising, Roger’s mum said she can get us a gig down in Cornwall next month.”

Brian’s face shutters oddly at the mention of Roger but he recovers quickly enough for Freddie to think he’d imagined it. “Sunday,” he says. “We’ll get in early and practice all day. Are you heading back home now, then?” 

Freddie nods, ducking out of the stall and under Brian’s umbrella, turning back to tie the canvas together, threading the padlock through. 

The umbrella keeps him blissfully dry but it’s still chilly and Freddie didn’t remember to pick up a coat that morning so he shivers a bit as he hurries along the street at Brian’s side, until Brian finally stops and makes him hold the umbrella.

“Here,” he says, shrugging out of it. “Take my coat.”

“Oh, Bri, I can’t—” Freddie gives a token protest but Brian’s already flinging it around his shoulders, zipping him into it. 

He’s standing close but Freddie _can’t_ read into it—the umbrella’s large but it’s not miles long. Brian has to keep close to remain under it. It’s just Freddie and his fucking _obsession_ with his best friend making him think there’s something here, something in the way Brian smiles at him, just gently, and tucks the zip right up under his chin.

“You’re always cold,” he says quietly, and pulls the hood up too with a little grin.

“This _country’s_ always cold,” Freddie corrects, and his voice sounds strange and warped, his throat gone suddenly tight. He has to clear it and tries to force himself to take a step back but he can’t, he can’t put distance between them, he has to wait, clings to it—

Because eventually, always, Brian steps away.

“Come on, or we’ll miss the bus,” Brian says, taking the umbrella back. He catches hold of Freddie by the elbow with his other hand, pulling him gently along with him as though Freddie’ll get left behind otherwise, as if there was ever even the slightest chance that Freddie wouldn’t follow him.

They take their usual seats on the top deck, at the front on the left, Freddie crammed in next to the window with Brian’s ridiculously long legs trying to find room somewhere in front of them, his knee stretching into Freddie’s space.

Freddie has to clench his hands together because the crazy urge to reach out and put his hand on Brian’s knee suddenly seizes him. He stares determinedly out of the window and tries to pinpoint when it was that ignoring his _thing _for Brian and keeping the friendly distance between them had become so fucking difficult. 

“So, do you want to hang out tonight?” Brian asks after they’ve passed a few stops in silence.

Freddie jerks his head round to look at him. “Hang out?” he asks.

“Yeah, you know. Like we were saying earlier?” Brian clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck. “We could see if there’s anything on at the movies, or write, or listen to some records or something.”

“Oh,” Freddie says, and his heart leaps for a moment before he remembers that he already has plans. “Actually Roger and I are going out tonight, to get ‘properly drunk’ were his words.”

“Oh.” Brian seems to draw back into his seat and Freddie turns to look at him properly.

“You should come with us,” he says hopefully.

“I dunno,” Brian shrugs. “I don’t want to intrude on your night or whatever.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Freddie says dismissively. “Deaky’ll probably come as well, and whoever else Roger can scrounge up on the way.”

Brian makes a face. “I thought we could do something just us two.”

“I really would love to, Bri,” Freddie says earnestly. “The cinema would be wonderful, we can do that on the weekend. Oh, please come with us, darling! Don’t leave me alone with drunk Roger.”

Brian huffs a quiet laugh. “Drunk _Freddie _is just as bad as drunk Roger,” he says knowingly.

“Exactly. Who knows where I’ll end up.”

Brian laughs despite himself. “In trouble, no doubt.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Maybe,” Brian says, which Freddie knows is as good as a yes.

Knowing that Brian’s coming out with them has Freddie ridiculously excited and he’s nearly beside himself by the time they finally get to their road, after stopping at what feels like every single street in London.

Roger’s already home and pre-drinking in the kitchen, arguing with Deaky about whose is the last can of beer.

“I’ll just go and get changed, then you can have the room,” Brian says, kicking his shoes off in the hall and disappearing off to the bedroom.

Roger frowns after him.

“He’s coming out with us!” Freddie tells him brightly, when Roger’s gaze lands on him.

“What? _Fred_! The point was to _not_ think about Brian tonight!” Roger says, exasperated. 

“Oh, I won’t be thinking like _that_!” Freddie says, waving him off. “We could all use some fun.” 

Roger rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous,” he huffs, but there’s no heat in it.

Freddie skips off to go and shower, exiting the kitchen just as Roger realises Deaky had used his distraction to steal the beer and, from the muffled commotion and sound of chairs being scraped out of the way, has decided to tussle with him for it. 

He spends a long time under the hot spray, letting himself look forward to the evening, determinedly _not_ letting himself worry that Brian’s going to meet someone else while they’re out and take off with her. Freddie doesn’t know if he could stomach that two days in a row.

Hopefully Brian’s gotten it out of his system for now and will just want to hang out with them. Unlikely, though, seeing as it’s _Brian_.

Freddie’s worked himself into a tight knot of misery by the time he realises he’s _thinking about it_ and has to spend another fifteen minutes re-shampooing his hair to calm himself down.

By the time he gets out of the shower Roger’s hollering down the hall that if Freddie’s not done in fifteen minutes he’s leaving without him.

Freddie ignores him and leisurely walks into his room, towel around his waist.

Brian’s lounging on his bed reading a book, dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt (_not_ his sex shirt, thank fucking god), but he looks up when Freddie walks in.

“You were a while,” he comments, putting a finger in his book to keep his place when he flips it shut. “I was beginning to wonder _what_ you were doing in there.”

Freddie pauses and blinks at him, _sure _that he’s misread that because no way Brian would imply that he was…

But there _is_ a faint but definitely-there blush beginning to spread across Brian’s cheekbones.

“Oh, not at all,” Freddie says, and he deserves an _Oscar_ for how flippantly he manages to say that. “I’ve got to save myself for later, you know.”

A crease appears between Brian’s eyebrows. “For later?” he echoes. “What’s happening later?”

“Roger seems to think I need to get laid,” Freddie confesses, rooting around the dressing table until he manages to find the plug for the hair dryer. 

Brian makes a strange noise behind him and sits up. “Roger seems pretty interested in your sex life,” he says. “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”

Freddie, who would rather disband Queen than confess how much he himself has personally obsessed over Brian’s own sex life, just shrugs. “He’s just _Roger_,” he says dismissively. “He thinks everyone needs to get laid all the time.”

_He gives you fucking condoms so you can,_ Freddie doesn’t say. He’s _not _thinking about any of that tonight.

Brian opens his mouth but Freddie flicks on the hair dryer, effectively drowning out whatever it was he was about to say. He cannot, he absolutely _cannot_, talk about sex with Brian, of all people. He can only imagine Brian launching into some anecdote or funny story about last night’s shag, the way Roger might the morning after down at the market stall.

The difference being that Freddie _loves_ hearing Roger’s stories and usually wheedles at him to dish while they’re setting stock out, but he’d rather cut his own ears off than listen to Brian talk about a girlfriend for even a moment.

As though summoned, Roger comes barrelling into the bedroom just as Freddie finishes drying his hair, one hand wrapped around several shot glasses and the other holding a bottle of vodka.

“Oh, God,” Brian says at once.

“Ooh!” Freddie coos. “Where have you been hiding _that_, darling?”

“It’s mine,” John says, tumbling in behind Roger and grinning at Freddie. “Won it in a dare.”

“What’d you do?” Brian asks curiously.

John only smirks a bit and shrugs innocently.

“Come on, drink up,” Roger says loudly, setting the glasses in a line and pouring shots the way a barkeeper would, accidentally splashing vodka over the physics essay that’s under them. “You’ve got ten minutes, Fred, so you’d better get some clothes on.”

“Oh shut up, I haven’t even decided what I’m going to wear yet,” Freddie says, picking up one of the shot glasses and giving it to Brian as he wanders over before taking one for himself. “Cheers, darlings!”

They clink together in a four and tip their heads back at the same time, matching winces on every face as it goes down. 

“Fred, trousers, now,” Roger says sternly, taking the shot glass from him. “Deaky, Bri—out.”

“What? It’s _my_ room!”

“Well unless you’re gonna _watch Freddie change_ you need to fuck off,” Roger says, hustling both of them to the door. “Ten minutes, Freddie, and I’m dragging you out no matter how dressed you are.”

“I wouldn’t watch him change,” Brian says defensively as the door shuts behind them.

“I’m _kidding_, Bri, Jesus,” Freddie can hear Roger muttering as they all troop away.

It’s fifteen minutes before John’s knocking on the door and warning Freddie that Roger’s threatening to leave, and another ten before Roger himself is hammering on the door that Freddie (wisely) locked demanding that he get his ass out here, _right now_.

Freddie only responds when Brian knocks a bit later, calling through to ask if he’s okay. 

“Fine,” Freddie says as he unlocks the door so Brian can come inside, hurrying back to his mirror to finish putting kohl around his eyes. “I couldn’t decide between white jeans or black.”

In the mirror, he catches Brian glance automatically down at his trousers and could swear he sees him blush. 

“White’s good,” Brian says, nodding a bit awkwardly. “Uh, so are you nearly ready? Fuck, Fred,” he adds, looking around at the bedroom that wasn’t exactly _tidy_ half an hour ago but definitely looked better than it does right now. There are clothes _everywhere_, on both of their beds and covering the entire floor in between. “What happened?”

“I told you,” Freddie says, carefully putting the cap on his eyeliner. “I couldn’t decide between white or black.”

Brian arches an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, fine, I couldn’t decide between a few other things, either,” Freddie confesses.

“You better tidy this up tomorrow,” Brian tells him.

“I will, I will,” Freddie says carelessly, breezing past him.

“Liar,” Brian says as he follows. Freddie _never_ tidies up, Brian always ends up putting his bloody clothes away for him.

“Finally!” Roger calls when Freddie emerges into the living room. A _lot_ more of the vodka bottle seems to have been consumed since Freddie last saw them, though Brian still seems quite sober so Freddie suspects Roger and John are the main culprits.

The long suffering-look Brian shoots him as they both stagger to their feet confirms this. 

Determined not to be left behind, Freddie pours himself and Brian another shot while Roger’s looking for his coat.

“Really, Fred?” Brian asks, though he takes the glass.

“Live a little, Bri,” Freddie laughs, and necks the shot.

Brian does the same and Roger lets out an offended yelp, struggling to get his arms into his sleeves. “Hey! You _refused_ to do another shot earlier!”

Brian just shrugs.

Thankfully the rain’s stopped by the time they get outside, though John’s wearing new shoes so he’s picking his way carefully around puddles, not easy three shots in, especially when Roger notices and makes it his mission to push him in one.

Brian hangs back to walk with Freddie, fondly rolling his eyes at the two of them.

“It’s like living with two kids,” he laughs. “Three, sometimes,” he adds, gently poking Freddie in the shoulder. “I can’t believe the mess in our room!”

“Oh, hush,” Freddie says, hip-checking him. He’d do the same to Roger or John but even so, doing it to Brian makes his heart skip a beat. “I’ve seen you eyeing up my jackets before, I should be more worried you’ll steal them!”

Brian snorts. “Like they’d fit me.” He rests his arm on Freddie’s head to prove his point and Freddie ducks away, playfully shoving at him.

“Just because _you’re_ a giant!”

“Freddie, Bri! Hurry up!” Deaky yells back to them as he disappears down the stairway to the tube station.

They manage to jump on a train just as it pulls up to the platform and ride it all the way to the stop they need—_not_ their usual pub, where Brian disappeared last night, but a bar they tend to start at when they’re intending to make a proper night of it. 

Roger’s at the counter the moment they walk in, ordering one hell of a round for the four of them because cocktails are two-for-one until eleven; the tray is nearly over-flowing as he carries it to the tiny booth they’ve managed to snag. It’s cramped and right near the bathroom and covered in used glasses but none of them plan on staying sober long enough to care.

“What the hell _is_ this, Rog?” Freddie asks, selecting one of the glasses and frowning at it. It’s bright blue and it has, of all things, a lightbulb as a decoration.

“Just shut up and drink it,” Roger says, putting his hand under the glass and pushing it up toward Freddie’s face. “Seen anyone you fancy yet?”

Freddie nearly chokes and it takes literally _all_ of his willpower not to glance at Brian, who jerks so badly at the question he knocks an empty glass over. 

“Christ, does _everything_ have to be about sex?” Brian cuts in before Freddie can reply.

“Not everything,” Roger allows. “But Freddie needs to get laid, that’s why I brought him out. _You_ got laid last night so you can shut up.”

Freddie wishes Roger hadn’t brought _that_ up and valiantly tries to pretend he has no idea what Brian did last night because it’ll only send his mood spiralling downward otherwise.

“Don’t you think that’s Freddie’s choice, not yours?”

“Freddie, do you want to get laid?” Roger asks pointedly.

Freddie, as it happens, just wants to _not _be in the middle of this little snit. “Well, you know, darling,” he says, chewing nervously on his straw. “Let’s just have fun, shall we? See where the night takes us all?”

All _not_ including Brian, who Freddie very much wants to go home sexually dissatisfied which probably makes him an awful friend but, in his defence, he is in love with an oblivious straight man so he feels that he’s allowed to be a little bit awful sometimes. 

“See?” Brian says. “Leave him alone.”

“_You_ leave him alone,” Roger retorts childishly, for lack of anything better. “You’re such a hypocrite, Brian, I bet you a fiver you’ve got a condom in _your_ pocket.”

There’s a beat that tells everyone at the table that Brian absolutely _does_ and Roger rolls his eyes.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

“Like you didn’t bring one with you,” Brian shoots back.

“Obviously,” Roger retorts. “But _I’m_ not the one having a go about Freddie wanting to get laid.”

“Both of you shut the _fuck_ up,” John cuts in suddenly, splashing both of them with a flick of his straw. “Freddie came out to have some drinks, not to listen to the two of you argue all night.”

Freddie shoots John a grateful look and takes a big gulp of his drink. “He’s right, both of you stop. Hurry up and get drunk, for fuck sake.” He leans across the table, deliberately ignoring whatever it was that Brian just muttered under his breath. “Deaky, did you say you and Ronnie were going away for your anniversary?” he asks.

Thankfully everyone is interested in this subject so Brian and Roger stop bickering to listen to Deaky tell them about the house they’re going to be staying in down in St. Ives for a romantic long weekend which soon turns into a discussion about the best route to use to drive to Cornwall, which then turns conversation onto their potential gig in Cornwall next month.

They haven’t yet talked about it much so this takes them through all of the drinks on the table as well as another round that Brian fetches for them and half of the round Deaky buys next, their table now littered with empty glasses. 

“I just think if we can nail a few more of our original songs we’ll make _so_ much better of an impression!” Freddie says for the fifth time, jabbing the sticky table with his fingertip.

“But we’re _better_ at the covers,” Roger insists. “That’s what people want to hear.” He drains the rest of his glass and bangs it down on the tabletop. “I’m telling you, that’s what’ll get us noticed. Being _good_ at what people _know_.”

“I’m with Freddie on this,” Brian says.

“What a shock,” Roger huffs, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of Freddie, isn’t it your turn to get a round?”

Freddie laughs in defeat and gets up. “Same again, my dears?” he asks, before heading off to the bar.

It’s gotten a lot busier since they first arrived, a veritable crowd forming around the bar that Freddie finds himself lurking on the fringes of, unable to get through.

They should have sent Brian; he’s not exactly a heavyweight but with his height, he can usually get through crowds like this no problem.

God, he needs to stop thinking about Brian all the damn time. 

Freddie gives himself an actual physical shake to try and get his mind back on track but he still sneaks a glance over to their booth. The rest of the boys are all leaned in together, no doubt still discussing the upcoming gig, when Brian suddenly looks up and catches Freddie’s eye.

Freddie turns away sharply, as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

A moment later, Brian’s at his elbow. “Need a hand?” he asks, bending down to speak directly into Freddie’s ear. He’s so close his hair brushes Freddie’s cheek and it’s all Freddie can do not to shiver, or to just turn into him and kiss him senseless. He’s so fucked. Roger’s probably right; he _does_ need to get laid, he needs to get Brian off his mind.

“Oh, no, darling, I just—”

“Come on,” Brian says, taking his elbow and weaving politely but determinedly through the crowd, pulling Freddie along with him.

He manages to get them right to the bar but there’s a girl in front who’s just placed an order for about a dozen complicated cocktails so the bartender gestures at them that he’ll be a moment.

Brian waves him off and indicates that they don’t mind waiting, picking a straw out of the glass of them and fiddling with it as he leans against the bar. 

Freddie stands next to him and plucks a sticky cocktail menu from the holder to peruse while they wait. 

“So, is hooking up the only reason you came out tonight?” Brian asks out of nowhere, tapping the back of Freddie’s hand with his straw.

Freddie closes his eyes for a moment. He really does _not_ want to have this conversation with Brian. 

He just shrugs. “I think Roger just wanted an excuse.”

Brian frowns. “But you did agree.”

“Well, yes,” Freddie says, struggling to focus on the gin-based cocktail offerings though he keeps his eyes glued to the paper. “It would be _nice_ to hook up with someone. It’s been quite a while.”

Brian flicks the straw away. “Yeah, well, you’re better off without that guy you were seeing. Derek.” He says the name like it’s a dirty word. “I never liked him.”

Freddie rolls his eyes. “You never like any of my boyfriends.”

“Because none of them are good enough for you,” Brian says. 

“He had abs to _die_ for.”

“He was an asshole,” Brian insists. “I used to hear the way he talked to you. You don’t have to put up with that, Freddie.”

Freddie has no idea how to handle this conversation; Brian _never_ likes his boyfriends but he’s usually just passive-aggressive about it until they break up, not outright like this.

“Well, I’m not putting up with anything any more,” Freddie says after a moment. “And I’m not putting _out_. I think Roger’s right.”

He turns around to lean his back against the bar, surveying the crowd. It’s not the sort of bar to attract many gay men but you never know. “What about that guy?” he asks, nodding his head at someone.

Brian, against his better judgement, looks round. “Which guy?”

“Blond, over by that fire exit.”

Brian makes a face. “Too short for you.”

Freddie snorts. “Oh? I didn’t realise there was a height limit.”

“You like men who are taller than you,” Brian points out. 

It’s a simple statement, and definitely true, but Freddie becomes suddenly very aware of Brian’s height and can, ridiculously, feel himself blushing.

“Fine,” he says. “What about that guy? With the leather jacket.”

Brian doesn’t like the look of _him_ at all; leather, buzzed hair, tattoos on his hands. The sort of guy Freddie doesn’t tend to _date_ but sometimes disappears off with during a night out and comes home in tears the next day after being kicked to the curb come morning. 

Brian doesn’t point any of that out. “He has a woman with him,” he says instead.

Freddie grins wickedly. “I could turn him.”

Brian glances over at him with an arched eyebrow. “Someone’s confident,” he remarks. 

“I’m _very_ good, darling,” Freddie says.

Brian can feel his face heating and quickly turns back to the bar, but he can’t let it go. “How would you do it?” he asks.

It’s Freddie’s turn to arch his eyebrows but when Brian doesn’t elaborate he decides to answer. “Wait until he went to the bathroom,” Freddie says, thinking about it. “Compliment him, let him see me looking. _My, your arms are just enormous, darling_!” Freddie mimics, laying his hand on Brian’s arm to show him, squeezing gently. “I love this jacket. I’ve always loved a biker,” he adds, sliding his hand down and leaning in. “So..._dangerous_. And adventurous.”

Freddie licks his lips and Brian could swear his heart stops, their faces are too close, Freddie’s hand is hot as a brand on his arm. 

“I bet you like a bit of adventure…” he murmurs, and slides his hand lower until he suddenly breaks away.

Brian realises with a jolt that he’s just gotten hard in his jeans and prays Freddie doesn’t notice.

“And then I’d offer him a blowjob,” Freddie adds casually, because this was all just playacting. “Do you think it’d work?”

_Yes_. Brian can barely get his brain to function, trying _not_ to let himself think about Freddie and blowjobs and grimy club bathrooms. “What if there was someone else in there?” he asks, because he cannot think of a single other thing to say.

Freddie elbows him. “Don’t ruin my fantasy,” he scolds. “The bathroom’s empty.”

Brian wraps the straw tightly around one of his fingers, focusing hard on that. “It’s dangerous,” he says quietly. “You never know who might…” He doesn’t want to say it aloud but he knows Freddie will know what he means; it’s impossible _not_ to be aware of the danger, to be aware that on a night out if you come across the wrong kind of asshole you could get hurt.

“Getting in a car with Roger’s dangerous,” Freddie counters. “I can’t just live my life like that, Bri.”

“I just want you to be safe,” Brian says. “And happy. With someone who really appreciates you.”

Freddie laughs, but it’s only gentle. “Well, none of _those_ guys want to have sex with me.” He means it as a joke but Brian’s face suggests he hasn’t taken it that way.

“A good night out doesn’t have to end in sex, Roger shouldn’t keep pressuring you,” Brian tells him, unwrapping the straw and flicking it across the bar.

“Roger hasn’t—”

“We can have fun anyway, just the four of us,” Brian insists. He turns to look earnestly at Freddie. “Can’t we?”

Freddie purses his lips. “Will you dance with me?” he asks. Brian _never_ dances but he senses he might get his way here.

Brian does laugh. “Maybe after another few cocktails,” he allows.

Freddie grins and waves frantically at the bartender. “We need four of your strongest cocktails, as soon as you can make them!” he calls, leaning over the bar to be heard. “And two shots!”

“Of what?” 

“Anything,” Freddie grins.

***

It’s more than a _few _cocktails later (and several shots mostly engineered by Roger and Freddie) but it’s not long before they’re all long past the point of no return.

Roger has crammed himself into Brian and Freddie’s side of the booth, an arm thrown around Freddie’s shoulders, leaning into him because he can’t quite keep himself upright.

“If _I_ was gay,” he’s saying, “I totally would, Fred. You’re _hot_! I would.”

Freddie’s laughing and turns to roll his eyes at Brian in mutual exasperation only to find Brian looking stiff and pissed off. 

“Is everything alright, darling?” Freddie asks at once, concerned.

“Fine,” Brian mutters, necking the last of his drink. “Should John and I make arrangements to get home without you two, then?”

Freddie’s eyebrows jump. “What? Of course not! Don’t tell me you’re leaving, Bri!”

“Sounds like you and Rog are,” Brian says, eyeing him over Freddie’s shoulder. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course we’re not!”

“Maybe we should,” Roger says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Roger, why don’t we get some more shots?” John asks loudly, reaching over the table to physically haul Roger away and rescue Freddie from his increasingly tight grip.

Roger, always up for more shots, staggers away with him and Freddie shoots John a grateful grin before he nudges Brian in the arm.

“Cheer up, Bri,” he says bracingly. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Brian says, and makes a visible effort to clear his expression. “I thought you were going to dance with me?”

Freddie laughs, surprised. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

Brian eyes him for a moment before he gets up suddenly, none too steady on his feet, and grandly offers Freddie a hand.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, as though this is a prom playing sweet music and not the heaviest dance beat the club can find.

Freddie laughs, delighted, and lets Brian pull him from the booth and onto the dance floor which illuminates them both in changing colours, washing them green and blue and red in time with their heartbeats.

“Can you even dance?” Freddie calls to Brian, who shrugs and grins.

“Show me.”

Freddie’s heart’s in his throat but he’s drunk enough not to mind. He turns and presses his back against Brian’s front, guiding both of his hands to his own hips.

“Just follow what I do,” Freddie calls over the music.

Brian, it turns out, actually can dance once he’s a few (more than a few, really) drinks in. His fingers are tight on Freddie’s hips, pulling him back against him, his own hips following the movement.

It’s definitely _not_ the sort of dance you should do with your friend, with your straight friend, your straight friend you’re horribly, helplessly in love with but Freddie doesn’t care. He wants this. Even if it’s just for tonight, he wants this. Brian never dances, especially not like _this_, not even if he’s trying to chat up a girl. 

“So you _can_ dance!” Freddie grins, turning over his shoulder so Brian can hear him, which puts their faces so close his heart actually stops for a second.

“Must be something in the drink,” Brian calls back, but jumps when Freddie pushes more firmly against him as a couple nearly bowls him over. 

He feels it through his entire body like a static shock, sudden and startling and _he’s hard again_. Brian stumbles as he tries to subtly put some distance between their bodies, his breath caught in his throat because if Freddie notices, if he realises—

“Bri?” 

He’s turning in Brian’s arms, peering worriedly at him, and then Freddie is the one who steps back.

“Bri? I’m sorry, they—”

“I just need to go to the bathroom,” Brian cuts over him, quickly stepping around Freddie and disappearing out of sight.

Freddie’s left standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, just watching the space in the crowd Brian disappeared through. 

He shouldn’t have danced with him like that, he _knew_ he shouldn’t, he _knew_ it would freak Brian out. But he just couldn’t help himself.

Freddie has to fight with himself not to get tearful as he makes his own way off the dance floor, running into Roger just on the edge.

He’s absolutely plastered but he’s still looking at Freddie with concern, hauling him in as soon as he’s in reach. 

“I didn’t know Brian could dance like that,” he says, his tone light but having to yell over the music. “What happened to _not_ thinking about him tonight, huh?”

“I know,” Freddie says miserably. “I can’t help it.”

“You need to drink more, that’s what you need. Come on.”

He drags Freddie off before he can protest, not that he was going to, and they soon have a row of shots lined up along the bar and salt on the backs of their hands. 

Freddie _isn’t_ thinking about Brian, he isn’t. He’s not wondering where he is, if he’s found someone somewhere in the club, leaning against a wall and talking to her with his shy little grin just playing around his mouth, or maybe it’s going well and he’s smiling wide enough that she’d be able to see those sharp teeth. Or maybe he’s left and gone home. Maybe he’s gone home but he’s not alone, just like last night—

Roger clicks his fingers in front of Freddie’s face. “Fred, come _on_!”

“Sorry.” Freddie licks the salt and necks the first shot, wincing as he bites into a slice of lemon. “I just...I just _hate_ when he’s with other people.”

“No, stop it,” Roger says firmly, throwing his own shot back. “Don’t think about him. _Don’t_. You’re supposed to be finding someone _else_, surely there’s someone in here who’s caught your eye?”

“_Yes_,” Freddie groans. “_Him_.” Only Brian. Nobody else is enough, nobody else is worth the bother when they’re not who Freddie _wants_. “Where do you think he is?”

“John went to go and find him,” Roger says, pushing a second shot toward Freddie. “Drink.”

Freddie drinks. “Why wasn’t I born a woman?” he laments, glancing down at himself. “I’d have him in a _heartbeat_. I _would_.”

“You would,” Roger assures supportively, impressive given he can barely support himself and has to lean heavily on the bar to keep upright. “Don’t forget to eat your lemon!”

Freddie bites it and gags before tossing it away. “Disgusting,” he says, immediately picking up another shot and doing the same thing all over again, clutching at Roger so he doesn’t fall down because his legs barely feel like legs any more. “If we got Bri drunk enough do you think he’d be a bit bicurious?” Freddie asks him, squinting at the bar to see how many shots they have left to do.

None, apparently. But there are a _lot_ of empty glasses rolling around in front of them. 

“I don’t think it counts if you’re drunk,” Roger says wisely, snorting as he slips on a bit of lemon and nearly drags Freddie to the floor in his attempt to remain upright. 

Freddie grabs him and holds tight, barely able to keep his own feet beneath him, but suddenly he doesn’t have to because someone else’s hands are against his back, pushing him upright again.

“Christ, how much have you two had to drink? I’ve only been gone ten minutes!”

“Bri!” Freddie says joyfully, swaying into him. 

Brian grabs his arm so he won’t fall.

Deaky yanks Roger up by the jacket, shaking his head. “I said don’t drink anything else!” he says. 

“We didn’t,” Roger giggles.

Freddie snorts and winks badly at Roger, who winks back.

“Oh my God,” Brian says, shaking his head, but he’s laughing. He’s a bit flushed but he looks more or less back to normal, enough so that Freddie almost thinks he must’ve imagined the weird moment on the dance floor. “How did you even afford all that?”

He’s looking at the shot glasses the two have left behind and Roger, spotting where his gaze is, panics and sweeps them all off the counter with one arm to hide the evidence.

“Roger!” Freddie gasps, before giggling hysterically when every one of the glasses rolls onto the floor and smashes at their feet, more obvious than ever.

“Oh, shit!”

“We should probably leave,” Deaky says quickly, catching the furious gaze of the barkeeper.

He grabs Roger and shoves him toward the exit while Brian does his best to keep Freddie steady as they follow, though his own faculties aren’t quite with him after….he dreads to think _how_ many cocktails.

They certainly make a picture staggering out onto the street, but not an unusual one for this time of night in this part of London.

Freddie and Roger are still sniggering away like schoolgirls, Deaky trying his damnedest to keep Roger on his feet while barely able to walk himself, the two near enough dragging each other down as Deaky is overcome with the giggles as well.

“It’s too far to walk,” Freddie moans loudly, gripping Brian’s jacket. “Let’s get a taxi, darlings.”

“What the hell are _you_ gonna sell to pay for a taxi?” Deaky asks over his shoulder.

“Your hair,” Freddie replies at once. “And Brian’s. People could make some nice wigs out of it.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Brian says, swatting at him.

“I will,” Freddie threatens, nearly face-planting the pavement as he trips. “I can’t walk. I’m going to die. Roger why did you do this to me?”

“I’m curing your broken heart!” Roger announces loudly.

“Shut _up_, Rog,” Deaky hisses at him, but Freddie doesn’t notice.

Brian frowns but doesn’t say anything, not quite able to turn the words over enough to make sense of them in his current state.

“Come here, Fred,” he says, stopping. “I’ll give you a piggyback.”

“Ooh!” Freddie suddenly finds some coordination and jumps, wrapping his arms around Brian’s neck and clinging on for dear life as Brian shifts him into place, holding onto his thighs. “God, you’re so _tall_, darling! Are you okay? Am I too heavy?”

Its takes Brian a few seconds to figure out quite how to walk but his legs are steady when he remembers, despite the ridiculous amount of vodka clouding his brain. “Fred, I’ve carried _textbooks_ heavier than you,” he replies. 

Freddie laughs and flops, quite happy to be carried all the way to the tube station, most definitely _not_ breathing in the scent of Brian’s hair, it’s just that it’s all in his face and he has to _breathe_. But he does smell wonderful, even after being in the club. Like _Brian_. Freddie’s tempted, sometimes, to steal some of his aftershave and spray it on his own wrist so he can keep that smell with him even when Brian’s not there, same with stealing his shampoo, but something tells him it just won’t be the same unless Brian’s the one wearing it. 

“You alright, Fred?” Brian asks when they’re nearly at the station, jiggling him a bit. “You’re quiet. You’re not gonna throw up on me, are you?”

“No,” Freddie says, hoping that’s true. 

How they get back from the tube station is a mystery to Freddie; one moment they’re on the street and Brian’s setting him down so they can all go downstairs to catch the train, and the next he’s in their bedroom, absolutely exhausted, and clambering into bed on top of all his rejected outfits from earlier, his hairdryer, the towel still damp from his shower. There’s a shot glass pressing into his cheek but Freddie can’t bring himself to care, he’s too damn tired and the room is spinning far too much for him to care about anything other than sleeping.

“Freddie,” Brian whispers loudly, leaning over him suddenly. He smells like lingering alcohol and also toothpaste, so he must’ve been in the bathroom. He’s also dressed in pyjama bottoms when Freddie opens his eyes a slit to look at him and somewhere in the back of his mind he wishes he was sober enough to really take this in because Brian’s not wearing a shirt and it’s just fantastic, honestly, even better than the sex shirt. 

“What?” Freddie mumbles, squeezing his eyes closed again. The room spins worse when they’re open.

“You can’t sleep on all this, Fred,” Brian reasons with him. 

“I can.”

“Fred,” Brian says lowly. “Come on. Get up a minute and I’ll clear it all off.”

Freddie screws up his face but he _is_ uncomfortable so he drags himself upright and manages to get to his feet with only minor swaying. 

Brian begins pulling his things off the bed, piling them up on Freddie’s vanity stool, but he needn’t have bothered; Freddie spots Brian’s own bed, which Brian’s already cleared off, and goes to collapse on that instead.

“Freddie! What are you doing?” Brian asks quickly, coming over to him. “This is my bed.”

“Mine’s messy!” Freddie complains, rolling over and making himself comfortable. 

Brian opens his mouth to argue but he already knows it’s pointless; this is Freddie, after all. He can be very stubborn when he wants to be, drunk Freddie most of all.

“You’d better budge up, then,” Brian says, clambering in himself and tugging the blankets up. “If you puke on me in the night I’ll never forgive you.”

“I won’t,” Freddie promises before rolling onto his side, biting his lip. “Do you...mind this?” he asks carefully.

“Mind what?”

“This,” Freddie elaborates helpfully. “_Me_.”

Brian frowns. “What about you?”

Freddie looks away. “Me,” he repeats. “Being here. Next to you. Because I’m gay,” he gets out, stilted.

“What? No! I—”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Freddie ploughs on, struggling to sit up. 

“Fred, that’s not—”

“I’m sorry if I have, I don’t _mean_ to, I just—”

“_Fred_,” Brian cuts him off. “I swear, you don’t.”

“But…”

Freddie flops back down, though Brian thinks it’s less because he’s accepted that and more because he can’t hold himself up any longer. 

“But what?”

“You get so weird about it,” Freddie rushes out. “Any time it comes up, like when I was joking around with Roger or talking about my ex-boyfriends or something.”

Brian’s face twists before he can help himself.

“See!” Freddie says, and his lips go suddenly thin. 

Brian’s known him long enough to recognise when Freddie’s trying not to cry.

“Oh, Fred,” he says gently, feeling his stomach drop. “I swear it’s not that at all, please believe me.” Oh fuck, they should probably have this conversation while they’re sober but Brian doesn’t know how to have it at _all_, he’s been trying _not_ to think about it, about any of it.

Because he _does_ get weird about Freddie’s boyfriends, he always has. He hates them. He even hates the ones who aren’t horrible to him. In fact he almost hates those more. The ones where it could almost go somewhere, where it’s _something_, where Freddie’s so lovestruck he can’t stop talking about them and no amount of going out and hooking up can make Brian forget about the fact that Freddie’s off somewhere else, drifting away from them.

And every time he comes back, because every time it ends badly and Freddie cries and Brian drinks with him or takes him to lunch or to the cinema or just sits with him listening to old records and hates himself a little bit because he’s _pleased_. He’s pleased it never works out for Freddie, and what sort of friend does that make him?

But none of that, none of it ever _clicked_ before but it’s starting to. A lot of things are starting to make sense to Brian, and he doesn’t want to think about it. He _can’t_. 

But he can’t let Freddie think it’s _him_, either. It’s Brian’s problem and he’s going to deal with it before it ruins their friendship.

“What, then?” Freddie asks softly.

“It’s nothing,” Brian insists. Panic is welling in his chest but he can’t let it take over him. “I swear to you, Freddie, okay? You’re my best friend. Nothing you do could _ever_ make me uncomfortable.”

Freddie doesn’t look like he believes him. “I could think of a few things,” he mutters, so quietly Brian almost doesn’t hear. 

“_Nothing_,” Brian repeats firmly. 

Freddie sighs but lets the subject drop, closing his eyes and dropping his head back on the other pillow. It smells like detergent, thank God, but Freddie can’t help but think about how someone else was here last night, only she and Brian didn’t have a careful bit of distance between them. They didn’t go to sleep stiff and uncertain but satisfied and probably cuddling and Freddie can’t—

He can’t sleep in this bed.

He lurches upright again and Brian startles, sitting up as well. “Fred? Are you gonna be sick?”

Freddie thinks he actually might. He fights free of the blankets and tears out of the room, locking himself in the bathroom.

He doesn’t throw up but he stays in there a long time, staring at nothing, trying to _think_ about nothing, and by the time he returns to the bedroom, Brian’s fast asleep.

Freddie dumps the rest of the things from his bed onto the floor and falls asleep before he’s even pulled the covers over himself.

* * *

They don’t talk about any of it after that night. 

Brian thinks about what Roger said about Freddie’s broken heart, and what Freddie had said about things he thought would make Brian uncomfortable. He even, when he’s feeling particularly brave, lets his thoughts stray carefully toward being in the club with Freddie, about the feeling of Freddie’s body pressed up against him, his ass suddenly against Brian’s crotch when he’d stepped back.

He knows it’s awful and the exact _opposite_ of what will help, but sometimes he thinks about that feeling while he’s jerking off in the shower. Freddie’s small and he hasn’t been to a gym a day in his life but his ass had been surprisingly firm and now Brian _can’t stop noticing it_. 

He’s like a man possessed. Something in him has opened its eyes and nothing he does will close them again. 

He’s been taking a lot of showers lately.

And Freddie’s been going on a lot of _dates_, lately. 

It’s Roger’s fault; for some reason he just has it in his head to hook Freddie up with someone no matter how many times Brian tells him to leave it well enough alone. 

They argue about it a lot when Freddie’s out in the evenings, arguments that invariably end up with Brian storming off when he can’t appropriately answer Roger’s, ‘Why do you _care_?’ and lying awake until he hears Freddie come home at a reasonable hour.

“He wanted to watch _Attack of the Mushroom Hoard_,” Freddie says one night.

“He took me to a _football match_.”

“He lives with his _parents_.”

Sometimes Freddie doesn’t come home at all and Brian tortures himself wondering who he’s with, what he looks like, where they’ve gone. 

If Brian took him out, he’d take him to the art gallery—the big one in the middle of the city that charges for entry. It’s ridiculously expensive so Freddie rarely gets to go but they always have interesting new exhibits on that he talks about and wishes he could do his uni projects on.

Brian would take him there. And to dinner after it closed, because they’d stay until they were kicked out, somewhere nice but not too posh, especially if Brian’s just spent all his cash on tickets to the gallery.

And there’s no quick or convenient way to just kiss him when he says goodbye, because Brian wouldn’t be leaving him at the door, so he’d do it while they were out, while they were walking home.

It’s difficult to sleep when it’s all he can think about.

It’s difficult to get over it. 

* * *

Brian meets Claire while he’s getting coffee after class and she seems nice so he asks her out. The thing with Freddie is...it’s manageable but it’s not going away, and this seems like the best way to do it. He just has to fall for someone else.

They don’t have much in common to talk about at dinner but she has a big family so they pass the time talking about her brothers and sisters and her sick aunt, and Brian talks a little bit about Queen and their upcoming gig and his degree.

It’s fine. She’s nice. He’s fine.

* * *

“Did you know Brian has a new girlfriend?” Freddie asks Roger a few days later, furiously stabbing a shirt with a needle as he sews a new button on.

“_What_? No! Since when? I thought—”

Roger pauses and Freddie glances up at him. “Thought what, darling?”

“Nothing. Who is she?”

Freddie shrugs. “Some girl,” he says. That’s literally how Brian had described her—_just some girl I met_. Nothing else matters because as long as she’s a _girl_ apparently it’s all fine. Not that Freddie needs to know anything else to hate her. 

“Christ, he gets around a bit, doesn’t he?” Roger says, shaking his head. “Have they slept together?”

Freddie jerks and accidentally stabs himself in the finger, cursing. “How should I know?” he demands.

Roger arches an eyebrow at him.

“No, not yet,” Freddie sighs. “He wore the sex shirt again today though. Tonight’s the night.”

Roger sniggers.

Freddie looks at him, aghast. 

“I’m sorry!” Roger says, trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry, Fred, I know you’re heartbroken and all, it’s just the idea of Brian having a _sex shirt_.”

“He does,” Freddie says darkly. “He looks positively _edible_ in it as well.”

Roger makes a face. “Ugh, speak for yourself. He’ll always just be our weird, nerdy mate Brian to me. Is he still going to practice with us tomorrow if he’s out with her?”

Freddie shrugs again. “I suppose the band hardly matters any more if he’s going to get married.”

“Oh, Mr Dramatic!” Roger says, throwing a hat at him. “Don’t marry him off just yet. I think he’s working through some stuff.”

“What stuff?” Freddie asks at once.

Roger shrugs but he looks shifty. “I dunno,” he says unconvincingly. “Stuff.”

“Rog! Tell me!”

Roger puts both hands in the air. “Don’t ask me, I never get what goes on in that crazy head of his. But he’s been _weird_ since we went out that night. Weirder than usual. He has a go at me every time I try and set you up with someone new.”

Freddie’s surprised at that. “Does he? I’ve never heard him say anything.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he waits until you’re gone,” Roger points out, rolling his eyes. “‘Who’ve you set him up with now? He doesn’t _need_ a boyfriend just because you think he does! You’re too obsessed with Freddie’s sex life’,” Roger mimics in what is actually a very good impression of Brian’s voice when he’s being pissy. 

Freddie quietly folds up the shirt he’s been fixing and sets it aside to be put on display later. “I think he has a problem with me being gay,” he confesses without looking up.

There’s a heavy pause before Roger sighs softly. “No, Fred,” he says patiently. “I don’t think that’s it.”

* * *

“I broke up with Claire,” Brian announces suddenly one day while Freddie’s lying in bed trying to sketch, coming in and dumping his uni bag on the floor. 

At this news, Freddie ditches his pencils and looks up. “Oh?” he asks, trying his absolute fucking damnedest to sound like nothing more than a casually interested friend. “I’m sorry, darling,” he adds hastily. “I never thought she was very good for you, anyway.”

Brian glances over at him as he’s stripping out of his jumper, far too warm in the house to be wearing it now they actually turn the heating on.

Freddie quickly averts his gaze and picks his pencil back up.

“Go on, then,” Brian says, flopping onto his own bed with a groan of mattress springs. “Who’d be good for me?”

Freddie doesn’t think ‘_Me_’ is a socially acceptable answer to that question but he wants to say it so badly, to finally put it out there for the gods to do with as they will.

“Um…” 

“Nobody,” Brian says immediately, dramatically, but he’s smiling at least. “I think you’re right.” He heaves a sigh and drops back onto his pillows. “Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book and try dating men,” he says casually.

The nib of Freddie’s pencil snaps against his page. “You—what?” he asks, startled.

Brian’s watching him carefully from across the room. 

“You’re not serious?” Freddie recovers enough to ask.

“I am, actually,” Brian says. There’s a slight nervous tremor in his voice but it’s well disguised. “I’ve been thinking about it lately. I want to try it.”

Freddie has no fucking idea how to deal with this. What the hell are you supposed to say when your friend/crush/probably the love of your life comes out to you? Freddie never did that, he just started bringing men around and silently dared anyone to question it, nobody really _said_ anything, it just _was_.

“You...you want to try...with a man?” Freddie gets out. Beneath the shock is fast coming the hurt—deep, aching swells of it. Brian with a man. _Brian with a man_. That would be infinitely more painful than seeing Brian with a girl and Freddie can already feel a tight ball of it forming in the back of his throat. Because it really is anyone, then. Anyone but him.

He can still recall with heart-wrenching clarity just how quickly Brian had yanked away from him in the club when they’d apparently gotten a little too close. But it’s not because Freddie’s a guy. It’s because he’s _Freddie_. 

“I...oh shit, I just remembered,” Freddie says, sliding off his bed and ignoring his things as they all tumble to the floor, pencils clattering down and probably shattering the graphite inside. “I have a...class.” His voice is shaking horribly and Freddie needs to get _out_ before he fucking cries.

“Freddie it’s eight o’clock at night,” Brian says reasonably, and quickly gets up when Freddie makes to dart out of the room, catching him before he reaches the door. “Hey,” he says gently. “Fred? What’s the matter? Have I upset you? I’m so sorry, I just thought—you were the one who’d—”

"Brian, _please_—”

“Oh, fuck, please don’t cry,” Brian says, enveloping him in a tight hug that Freddie’s just helpless to because it’s _Brian_ and Freddie just _needs_ him like he needs music and art and a warm bath after a long week. Not the way he needs food or air, not to survive, but to _live_. To lend any meaning to the days that pass. To feel _alive_. Without them—without _him_—it’s just pointless.

“I’m—not—crying,” Freddie says unsteadily, but he hides his face in Brian’s chest because he’s _so_ fucking close and he doesn’t want Brian to see. He pulls in a great shuddering breath and lets it out again. “I’m happy for you,” he says after a long moment, in a tiny voice.

Brian laughs gently and his breath stirs Freddie’s hair. “You might not be,” he says carefully.

“Why not?”

“Because…” His arms go tight suddenly and Freddie can feel Brian’s heart hammering in his chest. “Because. Well.” 

There’s a click as Brian audibly swallows and Freddie pulls back a tiny bit so he can look at him, surprised to hear such uncharacteristic nerves in his voice.

Brian looks fucking petrified, his face has gone white.

“_Because_,” he says quickly, steeling himself. “I do want to try it. With a guy. But specifically...with you.”

He falls silent and lets those words sit in the air between them.

The world stops. Freddie’s world does, anyway. Maybe everyone else’s keeps ticking along outside, people hurrying to and fro, going about their lives, but Freddie’s doesn’t.

He blinks and tries to remember how to breathe and tries to prepare himself for Brian to say something else, to correct himself, to say something that will make it clear Freddie’s misunderstood.

But Brian’s quiet, just waiting for him. 

"I don’t...Bri…” Freddie breathes. “I don’t underst—”

So Brian kisses him.

And it’s not a shy kiss, it’s a proper one. Both of Brian’s hands come up to cup Freddie’s face and he’s gentle but his mouth is very much _there_ and, a second later, his tongue, too, and Freddie fists both hands in his t-shirt and clutches him tight and kisses him back until he can’t breathe any more and has to pull away, gasping.

Brian’s flushed pink and his eyes are so bright they look shiny. He’s also trying to catch his breath but he doesn’t take his hands away and Freddie doesn’t move.

“Was that okay?” Brian asks him.

Freddie can’t find enough voice to reply so he kisses him instead, small and chaste because he’s still reeling. 

“Can I kiss you again?”

Freddie nods and leans on his toes so he can reach better, Brian’s mouth hot and firm and _perfect_ on his, so much better than Freddie would have ever dared imagine. His hands are big and warm on his face, his palms cupped against Freddie’s cheeks, guiding him, cradling him. 

They kiss for a long time, until Freddie’s back starts to get stiff and Brian’s hands have grown clammy from being pressed to his skin.

“Shall we lie down?” Brian asks hoarsely. “Not to..._do_ anything but just...this?”

“Yes,” Freddie whispers. “_Please_.”

He lets Brian walk him backward to the bed, clumsy because they kiss every other heartbeat and there are things all over the floor but they make it.

Brian’s mattress is obnoxiously loud but Freddie can’t bring himself to care as he lies back and Brian follows him, one arm curling around his waist to pull him flush against him, the other tracing patterns on the back of his neck.

“Fucking hell,” Brian says quietly, closing his eyes for a second.

“I know,” Freddie agrees, kissing the tip of Brian’s nose and his cheeks and his mouth again because he can’t resist. He can’t believe he can, they’re _here_, this is allowed. 

“Fucking _hell_,” Brian repeats.

“I know. _Bri_. God.” Freddie presses as close as he can, sliding his hands up Brian’s back.

Brian jumps and catches his breath. “I might...get hard,” he confesses, flushing. “If you keep touching me.” 

“That’s fine,” Freddie says, feeling warm through. “If you don’t mind, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Brian says at once. “Can I…?” He nudges against Freddie just a little, rubbing against him, and Freddie sucks in a sharp breath as his cock responds _instantly_.

“Yes,” he gasps. “You absolutely can, darling.”

“Do you think it’s too soon?”

“We’ve known each other for years,” Freddie says, pressing back against Brian, rocking into him. “I think I’ve been in love with you for nearly all of that.”

Brian grips him tightly at that and bows his head down to press against Freddie’s shoulder. “Don’t say that,” he says softly, running his hands under Freddie’s t-shirt, lifting the hem just slightly. 

“Why not?” Freddie asks, shivering as Brian’s fingers brush over his midriff. His fingertips are rough and calloused from playing guitar, those are _Brian’s_ hands on him. “It’s true.”

“Because that means I’ve missed this,” Brian says, slowly sliding Freddie’s shirt up. “For _years_.”

“You’ve got it now,” Freddie tells him, and can hardly believe it himself. 

“Can I…?” Brian asks, pushing Freddie’s shirt up higher to indicate he wants it off.

Freddie sits up, nodding, and helps Brian strip him out of it, groaning when Brian immediately touches his nipples, running his fingers over them, and Freddie’s done this with dozens of other people but this is _different_, it’s _Brian_, and he’s so fucking hard just from this. 

“Take yours off, too,” he demands, scrabbling with Brian’s shirt. “Please, Bri.”

Brian laughs giddily and happily pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor behind him before immediately falling onto Freddie to kiss him again, rocking his crotch against him and even through his jeans it’s so much, it’s so good, it’s fucking perfect.

Freddie makes little noises whenever Brian presses against him, little gaspy moans that Brian just _loves_, he almost wants to stop kissing him so he can hear them better but there’s something so arousing about the way he’s muffled by Brian’s lips and by Brian’s tongue in his mouth.

Freddie doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, grasping Brian’s shoulders one minute and rubbing them up and down his arms the next, then settling them on his waist, then grabbing at him to pull him closer. 

“Fuck, Brian, fuck,” Freddie mutters, swallowing hard as Brian cock grinds against his, _very_ noticeable even though they’re both clothed. “Are you okay? Is this okay?”

“Yeah, God, don’t stop,” Brian says quickly, kissing him again, greedy for it. He’d worried it might be strange, that he’d overthink the whole thing and ruin it, not just that Freddie was a man but that he’s _Freddie_, but he doesn’t even come close. He can’t be worried, he can’t stress when this feels so _right_, like he’s been missing something all along and it was this. He hasn’t been this hard in a long time, where it’s nearly _hurting_ and his brain won’t disengage from just _feeling_, from wanting, and doesn’t care about anything else. 

“I’ll touch you if you want,” Freddie adds breathlessly. “If it’s not too much.”

“Oh God,” Brian grits out, nodding vigorously. “Please.” He’s already unzipping his jeans and Freddie’s hand is inside his boxers a second later, warm and tight around his cock.

“Christ,” Brian breathes, cupping Freddie’s face in his hands again to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. No handjob has _ever_ felt this good, fucking hell. Freddie’s hands aren’t massive but they’re bigger than any girl’s Brian’s ever slept with, and he knows exactly what to do, how fast, how to grip, and doesn’t react at all when Brian leaks precome all over his palm. “Fuck, Freddie.”

Freddie’s grinning against his mouth, very pleased with himself, stroking him quickly while his other hand shoves Brian’s underwear out of the way so he has more room. A moment later Brian can feel his hand back between them and his brain nearly short-circuits when he realises Freddie’s touching himself at the same time. 

“Has anyone ever told you you have an _enormous_ cock, darling?” Freddie asks giddily. 

“Once or twice,” Brian gasps, thrusting into his grip. “Feel free to tell me again.” 

“Huge,” Freddie tells him, blindly rubbing his thumb over the tip because Brian won’t leave his mouth alone long enough for Freddie to look down at what he’s doing. “Perfect. I don’t know if I could swallow it but I could try.”

“Oh, _fuck_—” Brian’s hips stutter as he comes, biting Freddie’s lip as he does, continuing to push into his fist as Freddie works him over, open-mouthed kissing him in between swearing as quietly as he can.

“Maybe next time,” Freddie says roughly, finally letting go and wiping his hand off on Brian’s sheet. 

“Definitely,” Brian agrees, rolling onto his back with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. “Fucking hell. That was—you were—_Christ_.”

“I know,” Freddie grins cheekily, kissing his chest.

As he leans in, Brian wraps an arm around his waist to pull him down onto him and hold him close. 

“Did you finish?” he asks, not opening his eyes and instead blindly nudging his nose across Freddie’s cheek until he finds his mouth again. “I could—” He reaches between Freddie’s legs.

“You’re too late,” Freddie confesses, blushing. “I _really_ like your cock, darling.”

Brian opens his eyes at that. Smirks. Could _definitely_ get used to hearing Freddie tell him that.

“Don’t you get smug about it,” Freddie warns, but there’s no heat in it.

“Oh, I’m going to,” Brian tells him. “That was amazing, Fred. You’re fucking...God, you’re just something else.”

“I can’t believe you kissed me,” Freddie says, grinning wildly, dazed. 

Brian snorts. “We’ve done a bit more than kiss.”

“Yes but _you_ kissed _me_!” He still can’t believe it.

“I did,” Brian agrees. He feels happy and floaty and _perfect_, sated with Freddie in his arms. Why the fuck haven’t they been doing this for _years_?

“Can we stay here for a bit?” Freddie asks, nuzzling into him despite the wet patches on the sheets and on them.

Brian couldn’t bring himself to move even if meteors were raining down. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah definitely.” He kisses the top of Freddie’s head and relaxes, laying his head back.

God, he just can’t stop smiling. He wants to write a song about this feeling, this _exact_ feeling, but there are no words for it. There’ll be chords, sounds, but he needs his guitar and he’s not about to sacrifice holding Freddie to get it. 

So instead he just lies there with Freddie curled into him, lightly dozing and thinking about tomorrow and what they might do then, and the day after, and the day after, when suddenly his eyes snap wide open.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “Did you say you were in_ love _with me?” he asks.

But Freddie’s already asleep.

* * *

They decide, over cups of tea and tangled legs and lots of disbelieving giggling the next morning, not to tell anyone. They want to keep it just theirs, for now. Something precious and secret to be carefully guarded, something they can enjoy on their own for a little while. 

They don’t do anything else just yet but they kiss for half the morning, just lazing in Brian’s bed while their tea goes cold and the rest of the house wakes up around them until Brian reluctantly has to call an end to it because he has a class at noon.

Freddie, who was supposed to be opening the market stall this morning, figures he probably ought to go and actually do that so Roger won’t strangle him. 

Unfortunately for him, Roger’s very firmly planted in the kitchen when they both emerge.

“You two finally shagged, then,” he comments casually.

Freddie startles. “What?” he yelps. They’ve both showered and they’re fully clothed, there’s _no_ reason to suspect—

“I heard you,” Roger replies. “‘_Ooh, Freddie’_!” he cooes loudly and Brian blushes something fierce.

“We didn’t _shag_,” Brian says quickly, crossing his arms. “You shouldn’t have listened.”

“I wasn’t _listening_, you were quite bloody loud!” Roger retorts. “These walls are only thin, you know.”

“Well,” Brian says, but he doesn’t really seem to have much in the way of a retort. He puts an arm around Freddie’s shoulders. “Alright. If you have a problem with it, say something now.”

Roger shakes his head. “Not a single problem, mate. I’m happy for you. Really,” he adds at Brian’s arched eyebrow. “It’s about fucking time. Just _don’t_ do the dick thing and fuck each other over and then fuck up our band.”

“Agreed,” Freddie says quickly.

“And _you_, don’t set him up on any more dates,” Brian says, eyeing Roger. 

Roger snorts. “Fine,” he agrees. “I was only doing that so you’d realise how jealous you were, anyway.”

Brian’s mouth falls open. “_What_? You fucking prick! You _knew_ how much I hated that!”

“Yep,” Roger agrees, completely unapologetic. “And _I_ knew why. Took you fucking _ages_ to figure it out. Poor Freddie thought you hated him ‘cause he was gay!”

Brian has the good grace to look abashed. “I know,” he says quietly. “Which is definitely _not_ the case.”

“_I_ knew that,” Roger says, rolling his eyes. “You know, for a genius, you’re really fucking dumb sometimes.”

Brian might be offended but in this instance it’s true. 

Freddie laughs. “None of that matters any more, anyway!” He feels like nothing in the world could ever matter ever again except _this_; Brian by his side, with his arm around Freddie and both of their mouths just covered in the others’ kisses.

Roger pushes himself off the kitchen counter and points at Freddie. “Now we’ve got that all cleared up,” he says. “_You_ were meant to be at Kensington three hours ago!”

“I know, I know! I’m going now,” Freddie says quickly, ducking out from Brian’s arm to hunt down his shoes.

Roger follows him out into the hall while Brian runs back to his room to find his uni bag.

“Fred,” Roger says, pulling him gently so he’ll look at him properly. “Are you happy, now?” he asks seriously. “This isn’t just a one night thing? Brian’s not gonna like...freak out or something? He’s never been with a guy before.”

“I know,” Freddie says. “But it’s okay. We’re good. He’s good. I’m good.” He’s practically glowing so it’s hard not to believe him.

“Alright,” Roger says with a little grin, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Were you really setting me up with all those people to make him jealous?” Freddie asks. He moves some ‘Rent Overdue - Final Notice’ letters aside so he can sit on their little post table to yank his shoes on.

“Yeah,” Roger admits. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Freddie doesn’t care about anything that came before now, all the girls Brian was with, all the shitty dates he endured, all the horrible nights lying awake just _hurting_—it’s all, immediately, completely worth it.

“Oh, and you might wanna warn Brian,” Roger says quickly as Freddie’s heading out the door. “I think Deaky’s planning on giving him the _talk_. You know, ‘if you hurt him, I’ll bury you’ sort of thing? So...he should be prepared for that.”

“Oh, Christ,” Freddie laughs. “I’ll let him know. Thanks, Rog! For everything.”

He whirls out of the door before Roger can tell him he’s welcome, and Brian breezes past a moment later, hurrying to catch him on the path so they can walk to the bus stop together.

* * *

Brian, it turns out, is a very good boyfriend.

He takes Freddie to some wonderful places and he’s just as perfect as Freddie had daydreamed he would be. They go to the cinema three times to watch _Let It Be_ and Brian must have done some serious research because he’s found _two_ art galleries in the city that Freddie had never even heard of before.

He holds doors and pulls chairs and, when there’s nobody around, he holds Freddie’s hand right there in the street. He’s the perfect gentleman and Freddie spends his time floating on a cloud of bliss, quite unable to believe his luck. 

They split most nights between one or the other of their beds, sleeping cuddled together though they never do anything beyond that first night. Freddie tries to initiate things a few times but Brian always laughs and stops him, very gently, and tells him he wants to do things _properly_.

Freddie has no idea what the fuck that means; they’ve touched each others’ cocks, surely a good fuck isn’t much of a leap?

But Brian wants them to wait, and so Freddie waits. They do have fun anyway—Brian is _very_ talented with his hands—and frankly if it means he gets to have Brian, he’d give up sex forever if that was what it came to.

Then one night as they’re getting ready to go to dinner (Brian won’t tell him where but told him to dress up, so Freddie thinks it must be somewhere nice), Roger tells Freddie he and John are going out for the night and staying over with a mate because it’s closer and they’re going to be out late.

Which is strange because, though their flat is a shitty, leaking, sorry excuse for a home, it’s very well connected and getting back after a night out is rarely an issue.

“You needn’t do that, darling,” Freddie tells him, reclining back on the sofa as he waits for Brian, who’d lost on the shower lottery. “You won’t wake us.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Roger says, waving him off. “Think Bri wanted some alone time with you or something.”

Freddie arches his eyebrows and he’s about to ask what makes him think that when Brian appears, fresh from the shower and dressed, and Freddie’s mouth goes dry.

He’s wearing it. The sex shirt. He’s wearing it tonight.

“Ready to go?” Brian asks, smiling over at Freddie.

“Yes,” Freddie manages to get out. Christ, his heart’s already hammering and they have an entire fucking dinner to get through. “Definitely.” 

God, he looks good. Freddie can barely breathe as Brian takes his hand and calls their goodbyes. They’re going to have sex tonight. Oh God, they’re actually going to finally have sex.

“_That’s the sex shirt!_” Freddie mouths giddily over his shoulder to Roger as they head out the door. 

Roger grins at him and gives an exaggerated wink. 

The sex shirt. For Freddie. 

He has never been more pleased to see Brian wearing the damn thing but he can barely fucking _wait _to take it off him.


End file.
